


veins of rust

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Consent Issues (but it all works out), F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: “Do you know what it’s like to feel true thirst, Archivist?”
Relationships: Helen/Jonathan Sims, Helen/Michael/Jonathan Sims, Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 22
Kudos: 177





	veins of rust

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [diminishing odds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537057) by [indefensibleselfindulgence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefensibleselfindulgence/pseuds/indefensibleselfindulgence). 



> thanks to the jondistortion discords versions 1 and 2 for encouraging this. i nearly thought it wouldn't happen, but i got here in the end.

Once, Jon dares to ask Michael why he is the way he is.

Michael is quiet for a long time, biting down the curve of Jon’s neck until not a single patch of bare skin is untouched. He laps at the blood with no care for the mess he’s turned Jon into; no care for the dark red seeping into Jon’s crisp white shirt. It’s only when Jon’s thoughts are layered with fog that Michael finally speaks.

“Do you know what it’s like to feel true thirst, Archivist?” He punctuates each word with an open-mouthed kiss to one of the bites, and against all sanity, Jon leans into him. “Pure hunger with nothing to sate it, but no way to die from it. Days, weeks, months, blurring together. Wouldn’t that drive anyone a little bit mad?” 

“A little bit,” Jon echoes numbly, voice no more than a breath. Michael laughs, that terrible laugh that presses its way into Jon’s mind and sends his thoughts spiralling out of reach.

“Perhaps I’ll show you one day. I’m sure you’d like to… understand me.” 

There’s a moment of stillness, then all Jon can see is Michael’s eyes. They’re never one colour for more than a second, never even matching each other. Some delirious part of Jon’s brain wonders how that happens — what part of Michael’s inhuman form makes his gaze shift and whirl like a stained-glass kaleidoscope? Some sort of chemical reaction, perhaps?

Michael laughs again, more quietly this time. He caresses Jon’s neck, and Jon hears himself make an awful pained sound in the back of his throat. His thoughts scatter like static; there’s only Michael, all sharp edges and mischief and dizzying colour.

“Is that something you want? My blood dancing through your veins and leaving you utterly unrecognisable to all who knew you before? Does that thought appeal to you?”

His claws dig into the flesh of Jon’s throat. Jon lets out a wordless, desperate sound, and Michael shushes him, crimson-stained smile curving up at the edges.

“I’ll admit, I rather enjoy you like this. So harmless, so… human. It would be a shame to end our game so soon, wouldn’t it? But I suppose it could just as easily start a new game.”

Michael raises his wrist to his mouth and tears it open with a sound like ripping paper. His face creases with delighted pain as he holds the wound to Jon’s mouth. The shredded fragments of Jon’s lucidity remind him that it would be a terrible idea to take what Michael is giving him. Everything else wants him to drink, so he does. Michael’s blood is like acid on Jon’s tongue, sweet and sharp and burning down his throat. He can feel it like a living thing pulsing in his stomach, filling every crevice of his being with light.

“Already so hungry,” Michael coos, somewhere very far away. His free hand strokes Jon’s hair. “But I promise you, it will be far worse than this.”

Jon is so lost in the taste of Michael’s blood — more and more appetising with every moment — that he hardly notices when Michael bites into his neck once more. It feels like his higher reasoning is vanishing under a scarlet tide, until the world around him becomes nothing more than base sensations, and finally fades entirely.

When Jon wakes, he’s alone. On his desk, there’s a glass of water, a fresh white shirt, and a note in Michael’s handwriting. It’s apologetic, though he doesn’t say what he’s apologising for. 

Everything feels off-kilter still. Jon’s thoughts aren’t quite connecting in straight lines. He feels alive with energy, and yet deeply tired. And thirsty. So very, very thirsty.

He reaches for the glass of water and tries not to think about it.

Jon knows better than to think it’s a coincidence to find Helen sitting in his flat when he gets back that evening. She looks at home on his sofa, giving him a bland estate-agent smile.

“I thought you had to invite vampires in,” he says, because he’s far too jaded these days.

“Haven’t you already?” She blinks at him, revealing nothing, and he sighs.

“I’ve had enough of the mind games for one day, thank you very much.”

Jon hesitates, then sits down next to Helen, dropping his bag to the floor without any fanfare. Helen watches him as he takes off his coat, amusement plain on her face.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink, Jon?” 

Jon doesn’t realise he’s laughing until he hears the low sound of it spilling from his mouth. He runs a hand down his neck, feeling the tender bruises where the bites have healed over.

“I think I’m all out, I’m afraid. You can check the fridge, if you like.”

“I already did. All you’ve got is some out of date milk. Very inconvenient of you.”

Jon laughs again, though this time he’s not entirely sure why.

It still hurts seeing Helen like this. He didn’t save her from Michael’s grip, and now she’s taken to ripping people’s throats out with the same businesslike efficiency he imagines she must have sold houses with. There’s a predator underneath her skin, and it’s just as hungry as any other — all the worse for how easily she pretends at humanity.

(What would Jon be like, he wonders. The imagining hurts, like pressing his fingers to a fresh bruise, but he can’t stop forcing himself through the numb terror of it all. That maddening thirst still claws at his throat; he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with anyone on the Tube.)

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Helen complains, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his eyes.

“Mm. Michael was… strange, earlier today. Stranger than normal, I mean.”

“If you’re going to ask me if I have any insight into his thought processes, the answer is no.” Helen seems almost offended by the thought, mouth curving downwards in a way that only accentuates the gleaming sharpness of her canines. 

“No, I— I wasn’t, I don’t think.” Jon twists his hands together, not meeting her gaze. His pulse refuses to speed up, still sluggish from Michael’s appetite earlier. “I’m just worried. I…” Jon sighs, trying to decide on the best way to approach this situation. His mouth is very dry. “I don’t want to die.” It’s not what he meant to say, words low and vulnerable.

Helen goes still. Blinking slowly, she reaches out, cradling his hands in hers. Her skin is so cold against his; Jon feels feverish in comparison, like his touch might burn her.

“None of us want to die. But it’s not so bad, if it’s quick.”

It wasn’t quick for Helen. She hasn’t told Jon what happened, of course, not since she gave her statement, but Jon knows it wasn’t quick. Michael never has the decency to make things easy.

“Besides, are you sure you’re afraid of dying? Or are you just afraid of coming back wrong?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. Maybe.”

Helen raises a hand, brushing Jon’s hair out of his eyes. The downwards curve of her mouth is almost solemn, the stained-glass colours of her eyes still and sad. He leans his forehead against hers and lets out a sigh.

“I’m scared,” he admits, a painful lump in his throat.

“Of course you are.” Helen’s breath is cold on his cheek with every syllable. “I was scared too.”

The tacit confirmation of all Jon’s fears makes him shiver, pressing closer as though he can derive any comfort from the chill of Helen’s body. Michael is going to turn him. Perhaps he already has, and Jon’s self-denial is strong enough to parody humanity for a little while longer. That seems like the sort of thing Michael’s maddening powers would allow for.

“Michael likes a project,” Helen continues, a hint of derision in her tone, “but personally, I prefer not to draw these things out. It’s just… messy.”

“Would you make it quick? If— If I asked.” 

“Oh, Jon,” Helen murmurs, hair falling in front of her face like a curtain as she leans down to his neck. “With you, I’m afraid it would just spoil the fun.”

Jon knows Michael is there before he even speaks. It’s not tangible, but a pressure winding its way through his thoughts, slow and insidious and impossible to track without losing focus. 

All the same, he startles at the feeling of sharp nails grazing across his scalp. Michael hums as he tilts Jon’s head this way and that; Jon hisses through his teeth when the motion pulls at the marks that both Helen and Michael have left on him, threatening to split his skin.

“How are you, dear Archivist?”

“Stop man-handling me,” Jon snaps in reply, batting Michael’s hands away.

“Ah, irritable. Do you need something to eat?” The faux concern in Michael’s voice is enough to make Jon bristle, but before he can form a suitably acerbic reply, there’s the unmistakable smell of crimson hot in the air, and Jon needs it more than he’s ever needed anything before.

He turns faster than he thought he could, grabbing Michael’s wrist between both hands and pulling it to his mouth. Michael laughs, his fingers curving up to stroke Jon’s cheek indulgently.

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?”

With every swallow, Jon’s veins run colder — but his heart beats as quick as any prey. An intrusive thought of tearing it from his chest forces its way into his brain, and he can’t tell where the impulse comes from. The worst part is, there’s no satisfaction to the long-dead blood on his tongue. It quenches none of the thirst that has already built up beyond anything he could imagine. It’s hard to believe it’s only been a few days; if Michael had to live with this for months, it explains… well, everything.

It takes monumental effort for Jon to pull away, licking his lips free of blood on instinct. Michael’s smile has faded into a contemplation which fails to put Jon at ease.

“Hm.” Michael sounds displeased, his chin resting on his hand as he watches Jon attempt to compose himself. “This isn’t as cathartic as I’d hoped it would be.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, you could never,” Michael responds, looking him up and down.

Jon scowls. He reaches for the box of tissues in his desk drawer, wiping at the blood that still stains his chin. His canines ache to bite, and he can’t pretend he didn’t see it coming.

“You’ll be okay,” Michael adds, almost distractedly. Between blinks, he vanishes. Rather uncharacteristic of him; Jon has never known him not to take a meal whenever he can. It would have been almost merciful if Michael had drank his fill.

“We’ve come to an agreement regarding you.”

It’s late. Jon is wide awake in his bedroom, staring out of the window at the smog that blankets the starless sky of London. Helen and Michael are reflected in the glass, though their images vanish when Jon remembers that vampires aren’t supposed to have reflections. 

Despite himself, he laughs, turning to face them.

“Please, enlighten me.” His voice is more hoarse than he’d realised, but there’s still a satisfying bite to the words. “I’ve had rather enough of being toyed with. If you’re planning on killing me, I’d prefer sooner than later. I’m starting to get an awful headache.”

Helen steps forward first. A good choice if they’re planning to lure him in with misplaced trust, Jon supposes — one final lie.

“Would you prefer for us to kill you?”

“We’re not going to,” Michael says, eyes flashing in the dim glow of the street lights outside. “I would… miss you. You would be fascinating.”

“If Jon would prefer to die than become like us, then we’ll make it a pleasant death for him,” Helen responds, sharing a commiserating glance with Jon. “Either way, we’ll make it quick. That’s what we agreed, wasn’t it?”

“I reserve the right to change my mind.” Michael is pouting, Jon realises — sharp teeth almost comical where they dig into pale lips. “I’m famously changeable.”

Helen sighs, a pretense of life that nonetheless puts Jon a little more at ease.

“We agreed,” she tells Jon, “that we don’t like what Michael started. So we’re going to put a stop to it. But it’s up to you how we do that.”

“So you are going to kill me.”

Jon searches his soul for any kind of emotion at that revelation — anguish, despair, grief… There’s none of it. He just feels hollow, like his life has already been draining through cracks in his facade, and all that’s left to do is shatter him into pieces.

“You told me you didn’t want to die.” Helen steps forward; Jon steps away.

“I— I don’t.”

“Then don’t,” Michael interjects, fangs glinting eagerly. “Drink until there’s nothing left of who you used to be. Let dreams and madness and hunger become everything you are.”

“It doesn’t change you as dramatically as that,” Helen says, shooting a glare at Michael. 

Jon laughs, falling back to sit on his bed. His hands are shaking and he doesn’t know why. So this is how it all ends. Not exactly the months of terror that he’d been expecting. Helen and Michael both step closer, standing on either side of the bed with expressions of gentle hunger.

Michael’s hands on Jon’s shoulders are feather-light, pressing him down as Helen meticulously unbuttons his shirt. They lean over him, hopelessly beautiful in the way that vampires always are.

“Lie back,” Michael murmurs, “and we’ll do all of the work for you.”

Jon lets his eyes flutter shut as he leans back, abandoning himself to tender pain.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed! you can find me at [screechfoxes](http://screechfoxes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! have a good day!


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